


A Confession's Aftermath

by Xavier_Mage



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Introspection, Pining, Post-Chapter 9 (The Picture of Dorian Gray), Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23813218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xavier_Mage/pseuds/Xavier_Mage
Summary: Sometimes, one thousand words are worth more than a picture.-Some musings and thoughts from two equally tortured men. Takes place right after the events of Chapter 9.
Relationships: Dorian Gray/Basil Hallward
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	A Confession's Aftermath

Basil left, the sunlight momentarily blinding him with its brilliant radiance as he entered the garden. His tongue hung heavy in his mouth, not dissimilar to how one denied water had to deal with a sore throat after hours of dehydration. The weight of the words he uttered only moments ago has intensified rather than dissipated - the freedom that comes with voicing one’s desires had been cruelly denied to him. His fear of bearing his soul to the world was nothing compared to the horror of exposing it to the only man whose attention he truthfully cared for.

With said horror, Basil also came to a saddening, yet not surprising, conclusion: his Dorian was no longer his. No longer was he the fragment of light whose replica he had desperately tried to preserve in oil and color. His candor was marred by darkness he could detect in everything but the physical. It was akin to an illness of the mind, a corruption from forces diabolical.

His concern made him foolish, foolishness in turn making him sincere. Dorian knew he was adored and knew said adoration was justified - Basil told him so feverishly on numerous occasions. Telling his closest friend how his idolatry transcended aestheticism was, however, treading on dangerous ground. It was walking a path he was not ready to tread but could not help but run on full speed ahead when in the younger man’s presence. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose, his thoughts in disarray. Bright eyes, brighter curls, the softest of lips, bearing the most perfect resemblance to Cupid’s bow… Was he truly at fault for his lack of composure?

And Dorian listened, listened to Basil’s words, hand placed gently on his shoulder, fingers tensing and nails digging just a fragment at every turn of phrase that caught him by surprise. Basil noticed how often that happened, his heart skipping a beat when the lad hummed in wonderment as he finally deciphered the simple truth behind the torrent of words praising every strata of his being.

He understood, the artist knew as much. Dorian was his closest friend, after all. Of course he’d understand. 

The painter chanced a smile at the thought. It felt askew, the corners of his mouth refusing to move the way he intended, stiff and foreign.

The streets were quiet despite the sunny weather. The warm, golden glow caressed his face, the feeling of warmth not dissimilar to the one he felt a mere hour or so ago. He reveled in the ghost of touch, still lingering hot on his skin. He thought of his voice, at once a beautiful song and a damnable curse. Small details, enough to outshine a star. Enough to make one paint.

That should suffice, he told himself.

That was a shallow lie, of course, but what was an artist if not a creator of false hopes? 

Maybe the truth was more than he deserved. 

A bitter laugh escaped the artist, its taste strong enough he did not observe the stray tear running down his cheek.

Back in his studio, the neatly arranged pencils and brushes mocked him, his thoroughly-cleaned tools mere antonyms to his disheveled inner state. The perfume of flowers was oppressive, as was the silence that should have calmed him down rather than irate him further. He went to his chambers, hastily undressed and went to bed, the cold covers offering much-needed distraction from the insufferable headache and the heat still caressing his upper arms. 

Sleep did not come, yet dreams seemed to have invited themselves in even without the absence of lucidity. They reminded him of laughter, light and clear as the ringing of bells. They conjured curious, exploratory touches, leading to moments that would make any decent person blush. They envisioned delicate, marble-like fingers intertwining his own, less elegant digits, permanently stained with paint and age. They sang of lips kissing skin, of heated sighs in response to heated whispers, of passion and of colour and of him, always him, close to him, with him, _him_.

It felt like hell.

Basil didn’t let go of his inferno until heartache ultimately lulled him into unconsciousness, sheets borrowing the scent of sweat and the acrimonious aroma of tears.

***

Dorian smiled. Oh, romance seemed to follow him with unwavering interest, appearing from the most unexpected of angles. The older man moved him in a way very few individuals have managed to do before. Not even Sibyl, the heroine, the artist that became art herself in death, didn’t seem as completely captivating as Basil’s love. He was suffering because of it, because love is in equal parts a gift and a sacrifice - a sacrifice of the self, a thing so dearly important that it is bound to hurt when one gathers the courage to offer a part of it to someone else. 

Basil’s soul was nothing short of pure. It was such a seamless form of beauty that it made him jealous.

His cheeks flushed red in embarrassment. Another vengeful thought, another stain on his already deteriorating spirit.

His eyes darted in the direction of the covered artwork. A rush of rage - of shame - reddened his cheeks further. None shall ever have the misfortune to observe the obscene twist of his inner persona, above all the person who brought it into existence. If he only knew his masterpiece metamorphosed into a nightmare... He cared too much for the man to ever subject him to such perversity. 

A gentle breeze lifted the cloth, revealing a corner of the damned thing. The wind itself has decided to mock him, it seems. He went to the window and closed it in one sharp motion, its frame rattling slightly at the sudden force pressing on its hinges.

A frustrated sigh escaped his lips. His friend’s look of profound concern lingered in absurdly clear detail. The captivating brown of his eyes shined with emotion - a shine he would more often than not see as he posed for his picture for hours, hours that turned into days, days eventually into weeks, each moment spent together cementing an unspoken bond. He could not deny the effervescence his sincerity and calm brought into his life, in a world oversaturated with fake pleasantries and exaggerated excitement. Those had a time and a place - he was grateful that neither were needed in Basil’s company. He never realised just how much he appreciated it.

Other forgotten snippets of memory resurfaced the more he thought about the man’s face, the care and honesty in his voice, but most of all, and most intriguingly, the almost absolute loss of decorum in the midst of his all-revealing monologue. Dorian was fascinated by the love the painter had borne for him, and to realize it was more than simple artistic devotion that gave birth to his drive to create was nothing short of mesmerizing. It was, in fact, overwhelming.

It was intoxicating enough for him to want to stay sober. Such addictive intensity left him a mere day ago with the passing of Sibyl - he could not handle another fit of passion, not even for one that has so clearly fallen for him. His heart, as much as it was in need of sentiment, of love, of adoration, could not handle more than it has already been given at the moment.

Nevertheless, he should address the situation at some point. And he will. 

Basil was too wonderful to simply let go of.

He, or his condition, however, were wonders in their own right. And as anything that’s fantastical, he needed to make sure it would be everlasting. After downing a glass of champagne, Dorian turned to the portrait once more, the cover hiding the irreversible damage of his sins. As he waited for his servant to make his appearance, he poured himself another glass, the liquid reflecting his fine features. He elevated the painting to a mirror, he realised, when it should have been nothing more than a mere container of his shame. Were his misdeeds truly his own if he would not face their consequences? Secrecy was a small price to pay for never-ending beauty, in retrospect. It is offering him a chance to become greater on a silver platter.

Basil, however... Knowing the truth would break his heart. Was it truly only selfishness and self-preservation urging him on if he tried to guard more than his own happiness in the process?

He might never sit for him again, but he could always be his friend. His untainted muse. A perfect image. 

He could be his masterpiece.

Dorian smiled, a sliver of optimism settling into his heart amidst all the chaos.

**Author's Note:**

> The scene in the book struck me like lightning - the emotion I sensed from Basil's words was strong enough to get me out of a writer's block. I read his goodbye after his big great speech to be heavy with regret, as his devotion and love were unable to truly reach Dorian, as well as silent acceptance of the impossibility of their friendship ever elevating to something more than an artist admiring his muse. I jumped at the opportunity to expand on this bittersweet state of affairs, trying to keep the tone as Wilde-esque as possible.  
> In short, I like torturing myself. Oh, and Henry is a bastard, but you knew that already. Thanks for coming to my TED talk.  
> -XM


End file.
